


Of Humidity and Hatred

by greenapricot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-01
Updated: 2003-08-01
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco hates the humidity. He hates the horrible things does to his hair and his clothes and he just cannot stand the feeling of sweat on his skin and the damp fabric sticking to him. It makes him feel unclean. It makes him want to do nothing but sit in his room with the curtains drawn and a cold glass of water and a house elf with a fan. The humidity seems to slow everything down, his brain, his thoughts, his surroundings. It seems to fill all the empty spaces with a haze of moisture that he can almost see, almost feel, but not quite. Draco hates things that are intangible yet obviously there. He likes things to be concrete, orderly, and most importantly under his control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Humidity and Hatred

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2003. Takes place in the summer between 5th and 6th year, written before HBP, a time before Louis Cordice was cast as Blaise when my headcanon Blaise was played by a young Jonathan Rhys-Meyers.

Draco hates the humidity. He hates the horrible things does to his hair and his clothes and he just cannot stand the feeling of sweat on his skin and the damp fabric sticking to him. It makes him feel unclean. It makes him want to do nothing but sit in his room with the curtains drawn and a cold glass of water and a house elf with a fan. The humidity seems to slow everything down, his brain, his thoughts, his surroundings. It seems to fill all the empty spaces with a haze of moisture that he can almost see, almost feel, but not quite. Draco hates things that are intangible yet obviously there. He likes things to be concrete, orderly, and most importantly under his control.

Draco hates the way his mother has seamlessly replaced the company of his father with the company of Lucia Zabini. He hates the way Mrs. Zabini “drops by” Every. Single. Day. and announces in her simpering syrupy voice that she has brought Blaise along, like it is all a wonderfully unexpected surprise, “So the boys can play.” Draco is sure, though, that Mrs. Zabini’s definition of play is entirely different from that of her son’s.

Draco hates the predatory looks that Blaise flashes at him during tea, when their mothers aren’t watching, and the way he grinsneers, flashing teeth and running his tongue over his lips, and the fact that it sends shivers of warmth seeping up his spine like hot oil running against gravity, until he can feel the beat of his own pulse in his wrists as they rest against the arms of his chair. Draco hates the sounds that he can’t keep from escaping his mouth when Blaise runs his tongue along his collar bone, from his nipple to his navel, within precious few mindnumbing inches of his cock, and down his inner thigh. He hates the way Blaise gets under his skin and into his mind and that when he lies on his bed at night, the room somewhere between total blackness and just barely enough light to see, and everything looks black and white, every shadowmovement is Blaise.

Draco hates the sun, not for its light, but its heat, its potential to burn, and the potential of burns to scar, or worse, freckle. He hates the fact that his perfect fair skin sunburns very easily. He hates that Blaise never sunburns, no matter how long he basks in its rays.

Blaise is perfectly aware of just how much Draco loathes the heat and the sun, so, naturally, he insists that they spend the hottest part of each day outside, which leaves Draco sitting in the dank damp dark of the tail end of one of the many so-called secret passages that led from the depths of Malfoy Manor to various destinations throughout the grounds. This particular passage ends just at the edge of the lake where the soil is moist and water drip drip drips from the moss covered stone ceiling, down Draco’s neck and under the collar of his shirt no matter where he sits. Most likely cursed.

Draco hates the effortlessness of the way Blaise does everything, the way he moves and looks and talks and charms without breaking a sweat, without missing a beat. The way Blaise reclines on the grass at the edge of the lake, head back exposing the soft flesh of his neck, basking in the sun like a reptile, like a serpent, as if the heat is what keeps him going, as if it gives him power, as if it feeds him. Draco hates the way Blaise runs his hand lazily along his chest, up his neck and across his jaw and bites at the end of his index finger, throwing his head back and smirking across the lawn at Draco, trying, and usually succeeding, in enticing him out of his damp refuge. He hates the way Blaise wears his shirt, sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone so that he’s not even really wearing it so much as it’s just fabric draped loosely over tanned skin, and moves ever so slightly left or right, depending upon which way the wind blows, to make sure Draco gets the best view of navel nipple neck. He hates the way Blaise lays full length in the sun, and the hollow between trousers and skin that taunts him as Blaise stretches his long legs, made just a bit longer by his boots. He hates that Blaise always always wears black jeans, just the perfect cut, as if they were made for him, and maybe they were, but more likely it’s just the fact that Blaise looks incredible in anything, no everything, he wears. 

Draco hates the way the heavy air of summer seems to have the effect on Blaise of making him even more infuriating, as if it has somehow distilled his essence down to the barest essentials, and those bits, being Blaise, are, of course, not quite what he would have wanted them to be had he been given the choice. But all the same, they have a certain reluctant appeal. And most of all Draco hates that his own body betrays him everytime Blaise gets near him. Everytime Blaise traces his jaw with his delicious tongue and pulls Draco’s lower lip between his teeth. 

It is a vicious sticky cycle played out each day over the grounds of the Manor, amid the oppressive humid air and the gardens. Everyday Draco wakes determined that he hates Blaise, and what they do together and the it Will. Not. happen again, and everyday Blaise has only to look at him, with the quirk of an eyebrow, the flash of teeth, an oh so innocent stretch, arms above head, revealing the strip of skin between trousers and shirt, and that look that could melt the polar icecaps and it starts all over again.


End file.
